


Rotting from the Inside Out

by BisexualRoger (HyperPluviophile)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (I can't believe that's actually a tag), Brian May's 1974 Hepatitis Diagnosis, Depression, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insecurity, Oneshot, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/pseuds/BisexualRoger
Summary: In the aftermath of his hepatitis Brian is meant to be recovering. Which is what makes it all the harder when he only seems to become worse.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Rotting from the Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys 💗 x Heh, imagine how productive I'd be if I actually put time and effort into the chores I have to do irl instead of spending a whole evening writing a vent oneshot au. I'd be unstoppable I'm sure. 
> 
> This is just meant to be a short oneshot thing which is why it ends so aprubtly, and I would've written more but it's 11pm and ahsjfkfl I haven't done any of the things I said I'd do today so, meh. It's short. Also it's not beta'd so I'm really sorry if there are any glaring mistakes.

Since his brief but frightening health scare Brian’s recovery has been going well. He’s knows this because it’s what everyone, from his doctor to his therapist to his bandmates, has been telling him. It must be; after weeks of bedrest he can finally walk again. His beloved red is no longer languishing in a forgotten corner of a recording studio, interesting nothing but clouds of dust. No, he’s getting better. Of course he is.

But then, if that’s true, he can’t help but wonder why he feels as though he’s rotting from the inside out. Organs turning sour and chest caving in with every subsequent day that passes. Every night he sits heavy limbed with a pen hanging limp in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other, and he despairs how something that once came to him so quickly is now a near constant struggle. On the best of days (not that those exist anymore, they’re just better by comparison) he can manage several pages of notes that feel ingenious in the moment but make the little satisfaction he gains from them crumble when his friends wince and say that with a little more work they might be quite good. On the worst he lies in bed for hours. Mind devoid of anything except the bludgeoning realisation that he’s not good enough for Queen anymore. That he’s useless at the one thing he’d always credited himself as having something of a knack for. 

His body aches further with every passing day. Skin itching and insides practically writhing at every new low. And he’s not even sure if it’s necessarily physical. More, it’s an overall feeling of disgust. Not directed at his surroundings, but at himself. Inhabiting this body feels disgusting. Merely existing as Brian May feels foul. At night he dreams of peeling away the outer shell of flesh and bone and leaving behind this useless prison. Perhaps that’s why the words no longer flow, and when they do it’s only for the briefest flashes of inspiration that temporarily lift him out of his miserable haze only to grind him down even further when they’re gone. He’s contagious. Diseased. And when he watches listlessly as the sun crawls over the horizon each morning- the papers in his hands likely blank despite a whole night of work- he can’t help but wonder if this aspect of the grotesque was what kept his bandmates going in his absence. For their lives hadn’t stopped when he’d vanished. On the contrary, the three of them had practically thrived. Crafting hit song after hit song and maintaining active, engaged social lives all the while. 

Had they missed him at all? They’d said they had. And he loves them dearly enough not to doubt their integrity… But then again would they really have been so much worse off had he never left the four walls of his dingy hospital room? Deep down he thinks he knows the answer. It hurts, undoubtedly far more so than any bought of hepatitis or gangrene ever could, with the mere idea generating an unbearable ache in his chest and throat that makes him want to tearfully rip the offending organs out of his body by force. However he’s wise enough to know it only hurts so much because it’s the truth. 

As selfish as it sounds he feels, no, he _knows_ that truthfully he’s the least beloved out of all of them. Sure they do love him, but is he an essential component? Absolutely not. He knows that Roger’s explosive temper is most often directed at him. That Deaky’s scathing comments find their mark on him more than anyone. Even Freddie- who for goodness sake Brian would give the world to if he could- favours the youngest members of the band over him. He is and always will be the second choice. The leftovers. A mediocre happenstance of a person that’s an inconvenience at best and the pure embodiment of ambivalence at worst. With his only somewhat notable trait being that he’s vile. Even the fans who claim to love him only do so because they don’t really know him. If they did they’d be repulsed, he’s sure of it. A man on the cusp of unquantifiable success living in a peaceful country with a loving family and good friends wasting his days feeling bad? It’s enough to make Brian feel sick to his stomach. Then again, there’s little that doesn’t make him feel nauseous these days. __

_ _Incidentally this is how he’s feeling when Freddie approaches him in the studio late one afternoon. Having spent the afternoon screaming and frantically playing bass respectively, John and Roger have disappeared in search of food along with the majority of the crew. Brian meanwhile has had an entire day consisting of some songwriting, and a disturbingly large amount of lying face down on the stained sofa halfheartedly hoping the cushions will gain sentience and swallow his whole obsence body. Removing the offending object in the room (so to speak) and leaving him anywhere else but here. _ _

_ _Which is why he can’t really blame the lead singer for looking both surprised and concerned when he has to reluctantly hand him a near blank sheet of paper. Because he’s had an entire day to write another contribution to the album. An album that promises to be their major breakthrough. A revolutionary musical feat. And yet in a good six hours he’s barely been able to achieve anything. It’s pitiful really. _ _

_ _Perched delicately on the arm of the sofa Freddie’s eyes skim the megre collection of notes “Well… It’s definitely a start. That’s what counts. Actually I especially like this part, I think that’s a fantastic riff, if we were to-” _ _

_ _“Please” Brian cuts him off wearily. He can’t bear to hear Freddie struggle to find even the smallest salvageable segment in his laughable song. It almost hurts more than if he’d just outright said he hated it “You don’t have to. It’s awful. I know it is” _ _

_ _Freddie frowns “It could definitely do with more substance, but dear I’d hardly call it awful” He says, not unkindly either. _ _

_ _But Brian’s not in the state of mind to accept compliments. Instead he just sighs heavily. That’s another thing- Ridiculous as it sounds recently it feels as though his entire body has been filled with lead. There’s a tangible effort involved in even the slightest of movements, and he has no idea if it’s merely a lingering effect of the hepatitis or just all in his mind. Knowing his penchant for uselessness he’s inclined to believe it must be the latter. For goodness sake. He really does feel terrible. _ _

_ _Above him Freddie’s scanning him up and down with warm concerned eyes “Is everything alright dear?” He asks, with a tenderness that’s far more than Brian deserves “You’ve really not seemed yourself recently” _ _

_ _Despite everything the guitarist wants to laugh, the emotion coming like a glimpse of sun through cloud. Fleeting and ultimately unfulfilling but there nonetheless. Because truthfully he’s no longer sure who he is anymore. On the one hand there’s a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him that he never used to feel like this, that he _can_ write well. That music _isn’t_ his only talent. That he’s loved and appreciated and wanted by those around him, who would be nothing but supportive and understanding if he could just bring himself to open his mouth and be honest. But that voice is too often drowned out by the overwhelming crush of failure. If he’s aware that he’s being irrational then it is, like the laughter, in short unsustainable bursts of clarity. _____ _

_ _ _ _ _ _Brian scratches the back of his hand awkwardly. Just to feel something. Then he moves a hand into the front of his shirt, Roger style, in what he thinks might be a futile attempt at self comfort “I just… I haven’t really felt like anything I’ve written is good” He says after a pause. Out loud it sounds even more foolish, and through the haze of misery he feels the sting of embarrassment. _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _But through it all he sees Freddie’s reassuring gaze, and continues “It’s not even that I don’t like it. I hate everything I’ve written. None of it is worthwhile” He ploughs on before his friend can protest “I know, I know. Maybe it’s not worthless but to me it is… And I… I work so hard, and as I’m working it feels like I’m writing something meaningful, or something people might want to hear. But then I read it back, and it feels so awful. Not even awful, just mediocre. Useless” _Like me_ “This is the one thing I’m meant to be able to do effortlessly. And I can’t even get it right. Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true. You all hate it, you just don’t want to make things any worse” ___ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _With the outburst comes no catharsis or tears. If anything it makes him feel numb. He wants his bones and skin to melt away into the sofa cushions. Gross. Disgusting. Selfish too- It’s far from Freddie’s fault that he’s unable to function like a rational human being anymore. Who’s he to unload his pitiful fears of no longer being worth anything onto his close friend who by all accounts has done nothing wrong and is being rewarded with a guitar player who’s so self absorbed he might cost them the record? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _As Brian gazes listlessly into Freddie’s eyes he can’t help but realise that articulating his feelings has made him more rotten. The decay inside him feeling as though it has spread despite being ubiquitous at this point. It’s clear from the way his friend is biting his lip and running a hand through his hair, and looking down with a disturbingly humiliating mix of pity and confusion, that Freddie has no idea what to say or do to help. And Brian can’t blame him. How can he expect help when he himself cannot name the problem beyond vague internalised metaphors about the grotesque? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _If he’s meant to be getting better then how can he be helped as he slowly somehow becomes worse?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that was ok xx And I hope that if you're reading this you're having an amazing day 💗


End file.
